A Bit Trapped
by VictorianChik
Summary: Sequel to A Bit Annoying. Neal decides to go rogue and handle a dangerous case by himself just to show up the FBI; Peter is less than tolerant when things inevitably go wrong. Warning: Neal-whompage and spanking
1. Dark

Thanks to Fawkes Song for betaing. This story takes place after A Bit Annoying which takes place after A Bit Clueless. Hope you all enjoy.

-----

I was dead. That was the pure, simple truth if I had to confine myself to something as trivial and inconsequential as truth, which I objected to on an existential level. Truth was irrelevant and subjective and idiotic, but the truth was I was so, so screwed.

Peter would kill me, he would kill me dead. Which, of course, in my book did not involve him standing over my limp body with a smoking gun, but something much worse. Lecturing, scolding, that disappointed look which I could not endure, and probably some kind of physical, barbarian torture. He had paddled me a few weeks ago for stealing his car and had been an absolute tyrant while I was sick, but that was all minor compared to what I had just done and what he would do to me when he found out.

Good Lord, I was in trouble. I had not done anything this awful since I had escaped from prison. I would have given anything at that moment to turn the clock back. A time machine or one of those clock-turning-back apparatuses from Harry Potter – and I could return to this morning when I was helping Peter on a new case.

He had been all hovering and mother hen since I was sick a week ago, asking how I felt and if I had taken the rest of my medicine. I assured him I had, and thankfully I made a quick recovery, or Peter would have taken my temperature in the middle of the FBI office and started spooning out medicine while Jones and Lauren looked on, smirking.

Lauren had called me the "invalid" a few times over the last few days, telling Peter not to overwork me and to make sure I had time for an afternoon nap. I ignored her for the most part and laughed off her comments, secretly hoping Peter would put an end to her snide remarks. But of course, she stopped herself just short of annoying him, and Peter gave her an indulgent smile as she criticized me and I had to grin and bear it.

"Ah, we're taking good care of him," Peter clapped a hand on my shoulder, guiding me down to a chair. "So let's break down this new case. Any evidence we can use to get a warrant?"

The new case involved some guy smuggling Italian art (presumably stolen) into the country through barges and disguised under Prada merchandise. Apparently, the FBI didn't have enough authority to bust in and just open the barges, so we were doing the warrant dance again.

"It's simple," I told Peter. "Let me do the whole tracker out of bounds trick again. I go outside my radius into the barge, and you can come after me and you'll have your evidence."

"No, that wouldn't work here," Peter frowned as he shuffled through papers. "This guy has too many goons, too many guns, and too much power. We need another plan."

The next two hours were filled with designing plans, maneuvering people into place and trying to get more information through tapped phone lines and boring stuff like that.

Peter seemed to ignore me for the most part, his only directive to me coming at lunchtime when he told me to eat up. I ate without protest; he had promised me a talk about taking care of myself better, and so far, that talk had not come. I had a brilliant argument set up with rebuttals and clauses and conclusions, but I would evade that talk as long as I could. For all his smiles and teasing and good nature, Peter can turn into a bulldozer when he thinks he's right, and I knew he would twist the argument into something horrid. He'd probably end by saying, "You got sick, I made sure you got better, hence I win."

I would not get pulled into that brainless reasoning by my own volition, so I laid low.

However, when Peter went to give his team a play-by-play detail of the raid, I looked over the blueprints for the bust. Apparently, the content of the barges had been moved to a warehouse, miraculously a warehouse barely in my two mile radius.

I blame Lauren for what I decided to do next. All that ribbing – she had to know I would react. Or Peter – I could blame him for my newfound need to please the FBI. Heck, I could blame the entire FBI for putting me in this precarious position where I had to help solve cases or I got shipped back to prison.

As I slipped out of the room with plans, I continued to think of reasons why someone else should be blamed for my sneaking away to break the case. Don't misjudge me – I like working with Peter and solving cases together, but I need a little more glory from time to time. As a forger, I didn't get to take credit for my work, but as a consultant, I could bask in the glory.

And honestly, there is something inside me that craves a little of that glory . . . a lot of that glory. I get to show up the FBI all the time – that would go to anyone's head, and I'm a brilliant artist, so none of this was my fault. I was acting upon my most basic human need for recognition and praise. Everyone wants to be a hero sometimes, and I am no exception, except I am an exception because I'm amazing at what I do.

By the time I arrived at the warehouse, I had almost convinced myself that I was Batman and invulnerable, if a little cold. I had my suit coat on, but I had left my wool overcoat in the office, on the rack next to Peter's. I snuck into the warehouse via a high broken window after climbing come crates, and as I dropped into the dark warehouse, I was certain I was Superman. (I like Batman more than Superman, though – I can't understand why the most powerful man in the world would work as an awkward journalist for a grubby paper when he could be living in a penthouse with any woman he wanted.)

The crates had been loaded into the back of the semi-trucks, and I walked quickly up a ramp into the back of one truck, pulling out a small digital camera to take some pictures. My plan was simple: I would take pictures of what was inside the truck and take them back to the Bureau. They could use my photos as incriminating evidence because I was just a consultant who stumbled upon something illegal, just like any ordinary citizen.

But then my plan hit a tiny, little snag. I was in the truck when I heard a door opening and footsteps of men coming in the warehouse. I had a feeling these men would probably shoot first, dispose of my body, and then never bother asking questions, so I quickly jumped in back of the truck, wedged between the crates.

The men were talking in Italian, so I pulled out a tiny recorder and pushed the play button. I admit it – Peter might have taught me a few small things about gathering evidence though I could have learned by myself. I recorded for several minutes, breathing softly so no one could hear me.

I would have awesome evidence – photos and conversation. Case shut and solved, thanks to one brilliant Neal Caffrey.

And then they shut the doors to the trucks.

And then they locked the doors.

They left the warehouse, and I sat in the dark, the recorder still in my hand. The dark slightly freaked me out, but I managed to fumble for my phone. The greenish light from the screen made the inside of the truck look like something from a ghost story, haunted and morose. I went to pull at the drop door of the truck. It wouldn't budge an inch.

A dilemma for certain, trapped here in the dark. Did I wait to see if the truck would leave and I could escape at a new location? That presented a problem as I had no idea when the trucks would leave (it could be days), where they would go (across the country?), and if I would have a chance to sneak away once they stopped.

The other choice was to call someone. I thought about Mozzie – surely he could figure out a way to get me out, but I hated the idea of him facing thugs with guns. Why do bad guys have to carry guns?

Elizabeth was the next person to come to mind, anything to keep from going to the obvious person I would have to call eventually. I fantasized about calling her and having her rescue me because she would know what to do against a band of art smugglers. She would perform daring feats of bravery, and I would have her back, and I would get out and get back to Peter without having him suspect a thing. This little stunt would be our secret, one we would take to our graves, because Peter would slaughter me for putting El in danger if he ever found out.

Elizabeth is a smart, savvy woman who can achieve the impossible by handling Peter, but I didn't think she could turn superhero with a phone call. And she'd tell Peter right away anyway.

Maybe Jones could come rescue me. I'd even take Lauren at this point, and I'd let her humiliate me all she liked if she just wouldn't tell Peter. I indulged myself in another fantasy where Lauren exacted her revenge by making me her sex slave and I had to do depraved, sinful things in the bedroom while Lauren wore lacy lingerie and made me lay completely naked on the bed.

And then maybe Diana would come over and join forces with Lauren.

I credited the porno that played through my head for the next few minutes to the fact that I was in a near-death scenario and terrified. I would make apologies to Kate later for my infidelity, but sometimes a man has to protect himself and that should include becoming a sex toy for two gorgeous women.

After exhausting that fantasy, I actually scrolled down on the phone to Peter's number. As I pushed it and lifted it to my ear, I half-hoped I had no reception and I would have to figure a way out by myself.

But of course, the phone rang.

"Where are you?" Peter demanded as way of greeting. "We need you here, and I made excuses for you going to get coffee, but you need to get back."

"Peter," I hated the sound of my own weak voice, "I'm – uh, in a little trouble here."

Silence and then, "Where are you?"

I swallowed hard. "In the back of a truck."

"What?"

"A truck filled with stolen art. You were right about the smugglers. And I got pictures and a recorded conversation and enough ev-"

"Neal Caffrey, you tell me where you are right this second."

Peter's tone sent a rush of fear tingling over me, and I nearly dropped the phone. "I'm in a warehouse, the one you had on the maps, but I kind of got locked in the back of one of the trucks."

"Damn it, Neal," Peter hissed. I knew he was moving to where he could talk without anyone overhearing him. "Why didn't your tracker – it's in the radius, I guess. And you're supposed to be with me so it doesn't work right away. You're in the warehouse in the truck, locked in I suppose?"

"A little," I admitted.

He gave an angry huff. "Perfect, just perfect. You're in danger now. We can't bust them until the warrant comes in, and even once it does, you're in danger because once we show up they could try to destroy the cargo and kill you."

"I'll hide here," I promised.

"No good – the warrant might not come in until tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? The FBI isn't known for its speed I guess."

"Neal," Peter's voice was dangerously low.

"I'm done with the derogatory remarks, I promise."

A few more huffs, and then Peter said, "This is what I want you to do. And you're going to do it, young man, or I will personally drag you back to prison and pay them to put you in solitary for a month."

Any other time I would have bristled at being called "young man" – Peter was only thirteen years older than I was. However, I replied, "Yes, sir."

"You sometimes keep a pocket knife in your overcoat pocket. Do you have it with you?"

"I don't have the overcoat with me," I confessed.

Several seconds of silence. "You went out into the cold without an overcoat?"

My heart was pounding in my ears. "Peter, please, I was coming here to get evidence to help you. I wanted this case to be solved quickly. You know how good it looks when we solve cases quickly."

"Yes, I do," he said in a tone that boded nothing good. "Any chance you have the knife in your suit coat pocket?"

"Um," I reached down to feel for it.

"I swear to God, Neal," Peter growled, "if you went out in just a shirt and a vest, I'm bringing you back here and turning you over my knee in front of the whole Bureau."

"No, no, I'm wearing that coat. I'm feeling for – yeah, I have the knife." My heart was thudding hard as I pulled it out.

"All right, I want you to take off your coat and wrap it around the tracker."

The air felt cold, but I did as he told me.

"Once you have the tracker muffled, cut the band around your leg. That's going to alert the monitors, and then we can come after you right after we give the sign. Keep the tracker muffled, hide in the back of the truck, and wait. Do not move until you hear me calling you. If you get caught by anyone else, put your hands on your head with your FBI consultant badge open and hanging from your mouth. That will make them think twice about shooting you. You do have the badge, right?"

"Yes, sir," I nodded though he couldn't see me.

"Hang up and get into place. And Neal?"

"Yes?"

"I better find you in one whole piece or so help me, you'll be begging to go back to prison once I'm done with you."

He hung up abruptly. I went back to the far corner and knelt to cut the band off, using the light of the phone to guide my shaking hands. I hated to admit it, but my eyes were stinging. I hate it when Peter yells at me. Not just a little teasing or light scolding or even serious instruction, but full-out yelling and threatening me – I hated, hated it.

The squeal of the tracker was muffled by my coat, and I wrapped up the tracker and held it tight to my chest. Any other time, I would have thought of running. My ankle felt light and free without the tracker, but I didn't dare budge from my spot. Peter had found me twice, three times if you counted our first case together, and I knew Peter was counting that. Not a chance in the world that he wouldn't catch me again, and I knew then it would be back to prison for life.

I could do nothing but sit in the dark truck and wait.


	2. Semi

AN: Thanks to Fawkes Song for betaing. In this chapter I got to write about something I have always wanted to write about, ever since seeing Dark Knight two summers ago. Hope you all enjoy it. (Oh, and one reviewer asked for a bit of Neal-whumpage which I tried to accommodate.) Some of the FBI procedures I'm guessing at because I don't work for them and I don't have a huge amount of time to research with school starting up.

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I had barely hung up the phone when Lauren saw me.

"Jeez, boss," she hurried over to my side, "What's wrong?"

Jones was a step behind her, and I motioned them both close to me. "Here's the deal," I said in a hushed tone, "Caffrey's in trouble. He's got himself locked in the warehouse in the back of a truck with the stolen artwork."

Jones shook her head, but Lauren protested, "He's going to get hurt! These guys are dangerous."

"Maybe. In about twenty seconds, we're going to get a call that his tracker has been cut. We're going to gather everyone up and go after him and get the evidence we need. For everyone else, we're going to make this look like a planned job, but I want you two to know the truth."

"Idiot kid," Lauren shook her head. "Why would he try something like that?"

"He tried it before and it worked," Jones noted, alluding to the Dutchman case.

"I know, but we can't try that too many times," I pointed out. "Eventually, it's going to be seen as wrongfully-obtained evidence and thrown out of court. Which means all our work is in vain."

"Did you tell Caffrey that?" Jones asked.

I shook my head in regret, and then my cell phone went off.

Ten minutes later, we were packing into the cars. As I got into mine and Lauren slid into the passenger seat, I tried to keep calm and think rationally. Yes, Neal had disobeyed me, disobeyed a direct order, but was he completely to blame? I had been impressed when he figured out a way to catch the Dutchman, so much so that I hadn't really explained the procedures of the FBI to him all the way afterwards. That's one of my flaws when it comes to Neal – he's so smart and conniving and good at figuring out cases, that I assume he knows all standard FBI conduct like I do. I forget that I went to college to major in criminal justice and then trained at Quantico and have been working for the FBI for over twenty years, and Neal did none of those things.

I do think of him as a partner most of the time, a junior partner who follows my lead but carries his own weight and does his share of the work. Of course, I don't really tell him that or he'd be three times as arrogant. Other times I think of him as a younger brother or annoying nephew, and let's face it, he does go out of his way to annoy me. Those suits and June's coffee and that ridiculous hat – no one can tell me that he doesn't get a kick out of irritating me.

Which made it so nice when he got sick – too ill to go out of his way to tease me. Okay, I didn't like him being sick and the sinus infection did worry me and Neal can't take care of himself, what with running around in the rain like a moron and not wanting to take his medicine.

But still . . . he was new to all this FBI work.

At that moment, I didn't know whether or not I should be very stern with him or just let it go with a lecture. Last time I punished him, he knew he was in the wrong. He had stolen my car, driven off when he should be working, and got caught by the police for driving without a license. No way did Neal not know he was in the wrong there.

But here, he meant to help – he wanted to solve the case as quickly as possible. I felt all torn about how to deal with him, and that's Neal for you. Confusing your emotions, getting you feeling sorry for him, hating to see those sad blue eyes turning up to you like a kicked puppy.

"Damn kid," I growled, pounding the steering wheel with one hand.

"Hey, don't worry," Lauren gave me a concerned look. "Neal's a smart guy. He'll figure out a way to stay safe until we get there. Come on, Peter, the guy was in prison for four years. He can look after himself."

"I – I keep forgetting," I frowned in frustration. "I assume that because Neal outsmarted the FBI for so long, that he knows all the protocol, and he doesn't."

"Then tell him that," Lauren urged. "Sit him down, and have a nice long conversation about how he has to rely on you as senior agent because you know more than he does. Lay it all out, and Neal will see reason. Just stay calm and cool . . . of course, this is after you nail his ass to the door for today."

I growled deep in my chest.

Lauren grinned at me. "Can I be there when you tear him apart? I want to hear you yell at him, shred him for running off." Lauren beamed from ear to ear, like a sister anticipating her brother getting yelled at by a parent. "Make him sit in the chair while you pace and put your hands on your hips and shake your finger at him and his head droops lower and lower."

"You got a mean streak," I commented.

"No, I got brothers that were always in trouble. Nothing is better than seeing your brother, who tormented you endlessly, get chewed out by your father for acting like an idiot."

"Life's simple pleasures."

"What else are you going to do to him?" Lauren was starting to look about twelve years old. "Take away his allowance? Shorten his tracker to twenty feet so he can't leave his room at June's? Put him in one of those kid leashes and drag him around the office?"

I laughed out loud. Lauren was helping to calm me, and though I still planned to lecture Neal severely once I got him home, I knew I had to be calm in order to rescue him first.

I turned the car and saw the warehouse up ahead.

------

Waiting in the dark for someone to come and rescue me has to be the worst way to spend time. It would be a while, I knew, but time seemed to crawl by.

I desperately scrambled for a plan to help me get out of here. I had called Peter, but I couldn't just sit there and be rescued like some fairytale damsel in distress. I'm Neal Caffrey – I avoided the FBI for three years and escaped a maximum security prison. Peter was on his way, but I wasn't just sitting there like a doll.

So when the truck suddenly rolled up, I didn't stay hidden. I jumped up, my FBI wallet hanging open from my mouth and my hands clasped on the back of my head.

"On't oot!" I said between clenched teeth, meaning of course _Don't shoot_.

The two men at the end of the truck stepped back in surprise, raising semi-automatics up towards me. I flinched, but I crept towards them, careful to keep my hands on the back of my head. My coat was wrapped around the tracker in the far corner so they could see that I didn't have a weapon on me.

"Who are you?" one man demanded in a strong Italian accent. "How did you get in? Answer."

He lifted the gun threateningly, and I leaned forward slightly so the other man could take the badge.

They looked over it and the second man snorted, "FBI consultant."

They both broke into a bout of Italian curses.

"Hey, hey," I objected. "Can I say something?"

"Yes, you talk," the first man sneered. "You talk and then we shoot you and put you in a dumpster."

"I work for the FBI and they sent me to investigate, but I saw what you have here and I want in. You have millions of dollars of artwork in that truck and probably more in the other two. I have connections here in America – I can get you better deals."

"What do you know about the underworld of art?" the second man scoffed.

"I was in prison. I did time for forgery. The FBI has me on a work-release program. I don't get enough money to live on – I barely have enough to exist from day to day. Even if you give me a ten percent cut, I'd have enough to go to Mexico and live out my days like a king."

"Why should we give you a cut of anything? Even if we don't kill you, you work for us for free!"

"If I'm getting ten percent, I'll be motivated to get you the most for your art." I gave him a wide grin, hoping my eyes reflected pure greed. They just had to buy my act long enough for Peter and the FBI to get here. I didn't know how many more thugs were in the area, but at least I would keep the two guys here busy while Peter got his team into place.

The two men looked at me.

Then, before I could blink, the second man lashed the gun out, pistol-whipping me across the left side of my face. I barely realized what he had done when I stumbled back to fall on the concrete. My face burned with hot, numb pain, and my eyes filled with tears as I lifted fingers to my cheek. I felt wetness; I drew my hand back to see the tips of my fingers dabbed with blood.

"Baby," the first man laughed. "Hardened criminal – I think not."

He stuck the gun right in my face.

"No," I struggled to stay still and not jerk away. I really hate guns. "Don't shoot me. This was a trap. The FBI will be here any moment. They'll catch you. You know how many years murder gets you? A lot. You can still make a plea bargain – you were just the guards and not the main smuggler."

"Listen to him beg," the second man laughed. "Back into a wall, sniveling like a child – weep for me, pretty baby."

He kicked me in the side, and I got the air knocked out of me. Open mouthed, I gasped for breath, tears blinding me. In that moment, I felt my life had been nothing but an unfair fight where I got beaten, and shoved, and kicked around. When I finally got air in, tears spilled down my cheeks. I swiped at them hastily, wishing I didn't hurt so bad.

"He's a pretty bitch," the first man noted. "We could sell him. With that face and body, he's worth at least half a million Euros."

"I would rather kill him," the second man decided.

This was by far the most violent encounter I had ever had. I was in agony and the two men standing over me were discussing selling me as a sex slave.

"Shh!" the first man held up a hand. "Do you hear that?"

They both listened. I heard the soft rumble of cars approaching.

"Told you," I managed to get up to a sitting position.

They yelled at each other in Italian, and then the second man stalked over and yanked me up by the collar. "We will use you for ransom. Giovanni, call them, we will get the trucks out of here."

While Giovanni ran towards the far door on the other side of the building, the second man dragged me towards the front of the car. We reached the door and he opened it, and I went into action. I had no idea how to physically fight this man, but I refused to be taken hostage.

I butted my head back and felt it connect with the man's nose.

He screamed and I dashed forward. I tripped over his foot and fell to the concrete, my hands catching myself, my mouth striking the ground hard. More pain in my face, but I turned over on my back and kicked at the man's leg before he could aim the gun at me. His nose was bleeding, and when my shoe connected with the side of his knee, he yelled in pain again.

I scrambled up into the truck and slammed the door shut. The control panel had dozens of buttons all over the place, but I turned the key in the ignition and heard the engine start. There were too many pedals on the floor board, and a stick shift with too many gears, but I stomped down on what I thought was a clutch. The stick shift protested as I yanked it forward. I let off the pedal and thanked God when the truck rolled forward. Something banged against the door, and I knew I had to drive faster.

I hoped I wouldn't damage any of the art in the back, but I stepped on what I hoped was the gas and the truck groaned as it started gaining speed. The metal warehouse wall came closer and closer, and I wondered if it would hold when the truck hit it. I had to break through – I had no idea how to back this thing up and try hitting the wall again like a battering ram.

Faster, and faster – the wall speeding towards me. Twenty feet, ten feet, five – I closed my eyes as I stepped down on the gas as hard as I could.

It hit the wall. The impact threw me back against the seat, but the truck broke through the wall, the metal screeching as it gunned through the hole in the metal wall.

I flinched at the bright sunlight, but I kept driving. Something wet dripped down my chin. I pulled the overhead mirror down to see my lips cut and bleeding. They must have been bashed when I hit the concrete.

I saw the FBI cars to my left, and I turned the truck to drive towards them.

However, I've never – um, driven a semi truck before. I assumed I would turn the wheel hard and the whole truck would turn with the front.

However, that did not happen.

The front cab did turn making a sharp 90-degree angle turn to the left. But the weight and speed of the back kept going forward, and I got caught in some kind of jack-knifed drag to the right side. I fought to keep control of the truck, but the gears were screaming and the tires were shredding.

And suddenly the whole back of the truck started tipping to the right.

"No, no!" I yelled, struggling against the wheel.

But the truck refused to listen, and the back fell over. For a second, I looked at myself in the mirror in absolute horror – my poor bruised face – and then the cab was whip-lashed up in the air and fell to the side, the right door smashing into the ground and glass shattering.

I was thrown against the back of the seat and then tumbled down towards the broken glass.

My leg got caught between the steering wheel and the seat; tangled against the stick shift, I wondered how in hell I could ever get out of this with the smallest bit of dignity, considering the fact that I was hanging upside down with broken glass everywhere.


	3. Glass

AN: Just in a strong writing mood, and thankfully Fawkes Song has been good at betaing three days in a row. Some of you have sent me cool PMs and messages with awesome ideas. Thank you, I enjoyed challenging myself to use new ideas. These White Collar stories have given me a chance to play around with narration and style. That being said, I am forcing myself to take constructive criticism and push myself to learn from my readers. In this chapter, I really tried to match the characters to the canon as close as I could.

If you feel that I have not succeeded, well, fail on my part. But it still challenged my artistically which is kind of the reason I write in the first place. So bring on your thoughts. (Oh, and I kind of like Lauren. She treats Neal the same way I treat my younger brothers who are a little full of themselves and need their older sister to remind them to behave every so often.)

On with the story.

-----

I've seen some insane sights in my life, but I have never, ever seen anything as bizarre as a semi-truck flipping over on its side. It vaguely reminded me of the Batman movie I dragged El to see, where the truck flips over, but while it was cool in the movie (El was too scared to enjoy any of it, though), watching something on screen is far, far different than seeing it in real life. In the movie theater, I had grinned like an idiot at the special effects while El hid her face in my shoulder ("Oh, Peter," she had whimpered, "what's the Joker going to do next? I can't watch!"). But out in the broad parking lot in the back of the warehouse, the semi flipping was downright terrifying.

A minute before, I had just got out of the car, my gun drawn, Lauren right beside me, when out of nowhere, the semi-truck burst out of the metal warehouse. I slowed down, amazed at something so incredible happening, and then the truck turned towards me.

I fully expected it to try to run me down, and I was pulling Lauren out of the way when I caught sight of the driver. It was Neal . . . Neal was driving the semi.

The whole world slowed down to a crawl, and I couldn't breathe as I realized that he had cut too sharply. I saw the back of the truck tipping over, the whole long truck falling on its right side. I yelled something incoherent, but I knew I couldn't do anything against a multi-ton semi. I watched in horror as the cab thrashed up in the air and then slammed against the pavement.

Glass splintered and blew everywhere, but I was running towards the truck like a madman.

"Peter, be careful," Lauren shouted, but she was right behind me.

I've seen car wrecks before – I've seen mangled bodies and blood covering broken limbs, and every awful image of human carnage I had ever witnessed flashed through my mind in the four seconds it took me to reach the truck.

_Please, please, please, don't let it be Neal. God, I'm praying, I'm begging you, don't let that be Neal. Not Neal – he's too young – he's barely started turning his life around, no, no, no! Not Neal!_

I reached the truck and ducked to see through the broken windshield. "Neal? Neal?"

"Peter?" the kid's voice had never sounded so good to me before. "Peter, is that you?"

"Yeah, yeah, are you hurt?"

"Not too much. I'm caught and hanging upside down. There's a lot of glass in here, but I can't get free."

"Do not move," I ordered him. I whipped out my radio. "Man down," I spoke into the speaker. "Man down, and I need a bus immediately. Send any bus in the area. We need a fire truck, too."

"Affirmative," came the reply over the radio.

"No," Neal protested from inside, "I don't need an ambulance. I'll be fine. I just need to get free."

I heard movement inside the car and without thinking, I panicked and barked out, "You move another inch and I'll take a belt to you right here and now."

Lauren blinked in surprise, but the expression on my face must have scared her because she spoke up, "Neal, just stay still. Peter and I are going to work together to get the door open and get you out."

"You think we can?" I gave her a worried look. My heart was hammering in fear and I felt frantic to make sure he got out safely.

"I don't smell gasoline so there's probably not a leak," Lauren assured me. "The engine cut out when it flipped. If you boost me up, I can get to the top and open the door enough. I could help him from the top and you could duck inside the broken windshield."

I hesitated – all my training told me to wait until the medics got here and handled the situation properly – but I knew Neal. With all that energy, he couldn't hold still for that long and he would try to get free. From what I could see of his body, I knew if he pulled free he would fall right on his face into all the glass, probably damaging his eyes.

"We move slowly," I told Lauren. "Neal, do not move at all until I tell you. Stay perfectly still, and whatever happens, try to avoid the glass."

"Got it," he answered, his voice sounding odd against the seat.

The top of the cab, which was now the side door, was about eight feet in the air, but I laced my hands together to make a step. Lauren put her right foot in it, and I heaved her up in the air. She caught onto the edge of the cab, and I moved under her, placing her feet on my shoulders so she could get all the way up. Lauren isn't a heavy girl by any stretch of the imagination, but she's still over a hundred pounds, and my body told me I was getting too old to have that much weight stand on my shoulders.

Thankfully, she pulled herself up quickly and stood atop the fallen cab. It shook a little, but nothing else happened as she crouched by the door to open it.

"Careful," I warned her. "The weight of the door might be faulty, what with it up in the air now. Open it slowly and make sure it stays open before you lean in. I don't want the door slamming on you suddenly."

"Right, boss," Lauren opened the door and pulled it up into the air.

"Okay," she reported, "I can brace the door open. Caffrey's upside down with his lower legs and feet trapped between the steering wheel and the driver's seat."

"I could have told you that," Neal objected.

"What else?" I ignored him.

"If you got into the windshield and supported his top half, I could lean into the cab and free his legs. But if he falls down, he lands in a lot of glass. Your call, boss."

I strained to hear any sign of approaching ambulances, but I heard nothing. My radio suddenly chirped. I grabbed it to change the frequency, and Jones's voice came through.

"Yeah, we caught all the perps. Got about twelve guys in all. A few shots fired, but no one injured. Cuffing everyone and putting them in cars. You found Caffrey?"

"Yeah, he's stuck in a semi," I spoke back.

"Thanks for telling everyone," Neal grumbled.

"Right, I can see it from here," Jones radioed back.

I looked around the car, and saw Jones waving from the broken hole in the side of the warehouse.

"Bus is coming," I said into the radio. "But we're going to try to get him free. Start reading all the perps their rights."

"Yes, sir," Jones stepped back into the warehouse.

I tucked the radio in my pocket and then took off my overcoat and suit coat, making sure I had nothing that could get caught on the edges.

I crouched down and put on a pair of leather gloves I keep in my pocket. Gently, I started breaking off the remaining glass from the edges of the windshield. Neal was angled in such a way, facedown on the seat, that I couldn't really see his face, but I reached in to put a hand on his shoulder.

"In just a second," I told him, "I'm going to grab you around the waist. The moment I do, I want you to turn, wrap your arms around my neck, and hold on as tight as you can. Lauren is going to get your feet free then and I'm going to pull you out. I'm going to count to four. On two, I'm going to grab you. On three, you grab me. On four, Lauren, you push his feet free as I pull him out. Everybody got that?"

"Yes, boss," Lauren answered from overhead, dangling her torso down to grab Neal's ankles.

"Got it," Neal answered.

I took a deep breath. "One. Two," I grabbed Neal's upper body, pulling him towards me. "Three."

Neal twisted and wrapped his arms around me, crushing himself against me in a giant bear hug.

"Four."

I felt Neal's body start to fall and I pulled backwards out of the cab, dragging Neal with me.

I felt a rush of thankfulness flood me as I straightened, pulling Neal to his feet and tentatively stepping back to make sure he was all right.

He looked awful. The left side of his face was bruising – red and black – and his lips were cut and bleeding. His arms were scratched up, and he had bits of glass everywhere. I had never seen him look this awful, and I gazed at him in horror.

"I'll be okay," he assured me. "I'm beat up, but I don't think anything's broken."

"We'll let the paramedics be the judge of that," I told him. "Sit down on the ground until they come."

"Peter, I'm fine," he waved me off, then winced and put a hand to his rib. "Sorry, one of the guys kicked me before I escaped."

"You could have internal bleeding or a concussion. Go ahead and sit down."

Lauren lowered herself off the top of the cab and jumped lightly to the ground below. "Yeah, Caffrey, sit and wait for the medics."

Neal looked like he would argue further, but Lauren added, "It's FBI protocol. When you get hurt on the job, you got to wait for the paramedics, even if it's just a scratch."

Neal nodded slowly and lowered himself to sit on the ground. He looked dazed, and I fought the urge to strip him myself and check for bruising and fractured bones. I planned to be there when the bus finally came, and I fully intended to see that they put him on the gurney and I would ride with him all the way to the hospital. My palms were still sweaty, and I ran my fingers over my hair nervously.

Two minutes later, I heard the howl of the ambulance. Good grief, they're slow. I knew that it was New York with all the traffic and only about twelve minutes had passed since I called for them, but still -!

"Should I go help Jones?" Lauren asked.

"Yeah," I nodded. "Come back later so we can make a full report."

"I hate this part," Neal said as Lauren ran off. "Catching the bad guys is fun enough, but making the reports at the end is a drag. So much paperwork."

"You flipped a semi-truck full of stolen artwork over – of course, there's going to be paperwork," I tried to keep my temper down. Now that he was out of danger and the medics were almost here, I felt furious at him for acting so recklessly. If he hadn't been so beat up, I would have started lecturing right there and not let up until I got him home.

"I should learn how to drive one," he remarked off hand. "Oh, wait, do you think the artwork in the back is okay?"

"We'll worry about that later. Uh-uh, don't get up. Other agents can check the artwork,"

I waved the ambulance down and once it parked and the paramedics sprinted towards him, Neal tried to protest.

"I'm okay really."

Thankfully, the medics, two men and a woman, were not having any of that nonsense.

"Were you in the truck that flipped?" the woman asked.

"Yeah, a little," Neal admitted.

"Get a gurney," the woman directed the two guys.

In the back of the ambulance, they gingerly took off Neal's shirt and pants, shaking the glass free. He shivered in his boxers and t-shirt as he sat on the gurney, but one of the medics assured me,

"The glass isn't as bad as it looks. The windshield glass is meant to crumble upon impact. Most of the cuts were caused by hitting the dashboard when he flipped. He doesn't have to worry about glass shards getting in his skin."

Another medic lifted up Neal's shirt, and on one side of his torso, I saw an ugly red bruise stand out against the pale skin.

The medic pressed gently against the bruise and Neal winced, but the man reported, "No broken or cracked ribs that we can see. Probably just bruised."

He took out a penlight and shone it in Neal's eyes, holding up a finger and moving it back and forth. Neal's blue eyes followed the finger though he squinted at the light.

"Doesn't look like a concussion. Do you know your name? Where you are?"

"Neal Caffrey. In New York, in the back of an ambulance, sitting in my underwear," Neal replied, his tone slightly aggrieved.

"Don't be smart with the doctors," I reproved him before looking at the medics. "Ask him something hard, like the eighth president or the capital of Brazil."

"Martin Van Buren and Brasília," Neal answered, looking tired.

"His injuries all seem superficial rather than internal," the tall male medic reported. "But we can admit him for observation overnight."

"No, I'm fine," Neal shook his head slightly.

"Would you just let the doctor talk?" I asked, exasperated.

"I think I know my own body more than anyone else."

"Well, when you've been to medical school, you get to make that call. Until then, we listen to the doctors."

"Pe-e-eter," he sighed.

"You could have whiplash or torn joints. I think a night in the hospital is the best choice right now."

"The hospital is for people who are really, really sick. I'm just . . . banged up a little bit," he turned begging blue eyes up to me, and with his bruised face, he looked so pitiful I wanted to thump him for making me feel so sorry for him. Man, it killed me to see him so hurt.

The woman medic helped me out. "We could let your partner go home if someone else can check up on him during the night. And tomorrow morning, he would need a follow-up to make sure he's okay. Sir," to Neal, "do you live with someone or have a friend who could spend the night to check on you?"

"Yes, I do."

"Mozzie?" I snorted, guessing that would be his only friend. "Over my dead body. That guy wouldn't know what to do if you got sick. You can come to my place. The doctors can give me a list of things to look for."

Neal seemed to want to protest, but he finally nodded along. They wrapped him in a blanket, and I drove my car around so he could get in the front seat. Once he was bundled in the car, I drove the car to the other side and left him in the car with the engine on, with the heat full blast. I cracked the driver's window an inch so he wouldn't be breathing the exhaust.

The fire truck had come, and the firemen inspected the overturned truck, keeping everyone back in case it suddenly caught fire.

Jones and Lauren met me in the warehouse to report.

"We got all the artwork checked," Jones said. "The other two trucks were perfectly fine, but the flipped one –"

"It's mostly okay," Lauren interrupted. "A few pieces are banged up, but most are unharmed. I think an art restorer could repair the pieces pretty easily."

"This is going to be a pain to write up," I let my breath out heavily. "A semi turned over, a consultant hurt, a hole broken through the warehouse. Not things the FBI likes."

"Just another day working with Caffrey," Lauren grinned.

"I still can't believe it," Jones shook his head at the wreckage. "I mean, he killed the semi. Broke through the wall and then killed the semi like a motherfu – well, a you-know-what."

I smiled to hear Jones break off mid-swear. Jones doesn't usually cuss, but Neal has that effect on people.

"So, are we going to report that Neal got here first, and in an attempt to save the artwork, he jumped into one of the trucks and drove through the wall?"

"It's mostly the truth," Jones agreed.

"And the overturned truck?" I asked.

"Afraid he was going to hit something, he turned too sharp and it flipped?" Lauren suggested. "We're not really lying."

"Omission of the truth is lying," I pointed out.

"Yeah, but it's Neal. You got to omit a few things to get by and keep him working. Besides, we have more than enough evidence here to get everyone locked away. With Caffrey's injuries, we can add assault and battery of an FBI consultant to the list."

"He was breaking and entering private property without a warrant," Jones objected.

"That's right," I sighed. "No way any defense lawyer will let the assault charges stand. We'll have to trade assault and battery for breaking and entering."

We three looked at each other glumly. We would have a lot of paperwork to straighten out. And then I still had to get Neal home and make sure he healed up properly before I could straighten him out.

Some days, this job isn't worth the money they pay me.


	4. Ice

Thank to Fawkes Song for betaing.

------

It took Peter about two hours to sort through the whole mess. I sat in the car, pulling the blanket tight around me and trying to ignore how much my body hurt. Once the adrenaline wore off, I felt slightly shaky and acutely aware of how my cuts and bruises hurt. All those movies where the hero gets beaten up and shrugs it off, where he gets shot and gets going, doesn't even notice he's bleeding all over the place – it's all a lie.

Getting punched hurts. Getting punched hard enough to knock you down hurts even more. Smashing your mouth against concrete hurts. And slamming around in a semi cab as it turns over hurts too. Even the fight I had endured in prison wasn't this bad. In that fight, I had gotten caught in a brawl and been tossed against a wall and stepped on a few times, but nothing bad enough to send me to the infirmary.

I didn't want to be a whiner, but I would have given anything right then for a bed and some painkillers. I thought the white collar crime division would mean never having to risk bodily harm, but apparently I was wrong.

Of course, this whole thing had kind of been partly due to me, a little, maybe. If one looked at it at the right angle, one might conjure this whole mess resulted from my actions, but I would deny that. I hadn't been the one to steal and smuggle all the artwork, and I was trying to ensure we got the bad guys. According to Peter, we got the bad guys all right. We caught them red-handed, and the evidence was all intact . . . mostly.

Oh, who was I kidding? Peter was going to nail me good for this. I had been impatient and gone off on my own. I know – I know that I'm stepping out of line, but no one has any idea how frustrating it is being monitored all the time.

In my head, I replayed the conversation Peter and I have all the time.

"_You were a criminal, Caffrey. We got you on the bonds, but you can't tell me that the bonds were the only thing you ever did."_

"_Just because I might have done a few things that the law frowns on doesn't mean I have to be watched all the time, Peter."_

"_You have a two mile radius. That is very generous."_

"_Generous? I can barely go anywhere."_

"_You don't need to go anywhere. I'm watching you – just remember that."_

_(In a low grumble) "As if I could forget it, FBI lemming."_

"_What was that?"_

"_Oh, nothing."_

We had had some version of that conversation over and over again, with him saying I needed less freedom and me saying I was tired of being monitored. It didn't matter who won the argument – my radius stayed the same and I was still watched. They didn't even keep this close track of me in prison. There, if you showed up at the right place when the bells rang, they didn't care what you did in your free time.

But under Warden Peter, I had to toe the line and inform him of every little thing, and now I was going to get my ass handed to me, just because I kind of went off by myself and kind of got beat up. I wondered if I could play the hurt angle to get some sympathy, maybe groan and sigh until he let me off for tonight and then hightail it to Mexico in the middle of the night.

He came back to the car to check on me a few times, promising it was almost time to leave. I nodded along, but I was relieved when he finally got into the car and buckled his seatbelt.

"Okay, Cruz and Jones are going to wrap up. Look at me."

I slowly turned my head in his direction.

"Man," he shook his head, "you look awful. I wish I could sneak you upstairs without El looking at you. She's going to freak."

"It doesn't hurt that much," I leaned back in my seat as he pulled out of the warehouse lot.

"Baloney," Peter scoffed. "I've gotten punched in the face before. Anything hard enough to leave a mark hurts. We'll get some ice on your face. How's your side?"

"It's fine."

"You don't get extra points by shrugging off the pain."

"What? You aren't going to tell me to cowboy up?" I glanced at him.

"Not when your face looks like pulverized meat. Did they do that when they found you hiding?"

I hesitated. So far I wasn't sure what Peter had put in the report. The thugs would be drilled for information, but who knew what they would tell the authorities, and even then no one had to believe their version of what happened in the warehouse. I could let Peter think they found me and beat me up instead of me jumping out and provoking them.

Chances were, if I went along with the finding-me story, I could get away with lying. Peter wasn't smart enough to figure that out, was he? Yeah, he had caught me a few times, but I'm a world-class liar and –

Peter swung the car to a small side street and jerked to a stop. He sighed and looked at me.

"What?" I gave him my best wide-eyed, innocent look.

"Anytime you hesitate for a second, you've done something wrong. Or you're thinking about doing something wrong."

"That's not fair," I objected. "Sometimes I need time to think."

"No thinking for you!" Peter pointed a finger at me.

"I'm not allowed to think now?"

"Thinking always gets you in trouble. You didn't stay hidden, did you? You went out to confront those guys?"

"There were only two of them, and I stalled them until you could get there. They could have driven off with the art. I stalled them and you got them."

"You got hurt. You ran a semi through a metal wall and flipped it over. You could have been killed. All because you didn't obey me."

I clenched my teeth together, drawing myself up in my seat despite the pain. "Peter, I may be a criminal and a consultant and the lowest scum in the world, according to you, but you're not my father. I'm over thirty, and I don't have to obey anyone."

He turned towards me ominously. "Neal Caffrey, I am responsible for your health and well-being on every case we take. I'm the team leader, and I make the decisions. Now, you apologize for putting yourself in danger and worrying me or I'm taking you straight back to prison."

I watched him carefully, feeling the hostility in the car as we fought this war of wills. Apologize! Like I was a little kid who had thrown a toy at a parent.

"You're bluffing," I countered.

"I am bluffing," Peter admitted. "But you apologize, or I swear you've lost my respect forever."

"You don't respect me," I shot back, feeling my eyes prickling with tears. Jeez, I was such a baby today. "You respect Lauren and Jones – I'm just a criminal."

"Well, whose choice was that? If a guy starts robbing gas stations, don't you call him a robber? If a guy kills someone, don't you call him a killer? You broke the law and got sent to prison – you're a criminal. Besides, respect has to be earned."

"Na-uh," I shook my head, "respect should be given freely."

"Jeez, we're back to being twelve again," Peter sighed. "You have to stop lying to me."

"Why? I've lied all my life. Why should I stop lying now? Telling the truth gets me in trouble."

"It does not."

"Yes, it does. If I lied and said the thug found me, you'd let it go. But if I told the truth, you'd be all mad at me for disobeying you."

"Ah, see there? You know you're supposed to obey me. People don't like being lied to. It ruins friendships."

"We're not friends," I said before I could stop myself.

He lifted his eyebrows at me, wearing a come-on-now expression.

"We're not," I insisted though it made my eyes hurt even more. "We're warden and prisoner. Friends don't boss friends around."

"Friends boss around friends who put themselves in danger. What do you think would have happened if I came back and saw that you had been shot or killed?"

"You'd think 'Good, I'm finished with him'," I declared though I didn't believe it.

"Neal, you're pushing it. Now, are you going to apologize or do I take you to the hospital and make them admit you for the night?"

That threat he could carry out. "You wouldn't," I tested.

"I'll make them put in an IV," he countered.

A needle in my hand that stayed there. "I'm sorry," I mumbled.

"For what?"

It was just like kindergarten all over again, that time I had tricked another boy out of the blue car so I could have them all and he cried and the teacher made me apologize.

"I'm sorry for not listening and getting beaten up."

"And once I take you home, are you going to behave?"

"I'm always nice at your home," I said as he pulled back out on the road. "I'm polite to your wife and kind to your dog. You're the one who's a grouch in your home."

"Only when you're there," he replied.

I hate that he has a retort for everything. I stayed quiet for a while, reaching up once to touch my puffy lips and check for bleeding.

"Don't touch it – you'll make it worse," Peter told me.

"Well, you're the one who pulled the car off to have a conversation instead of going home."

"I wouldn't have had to if you had been honest in the first place."

Once we got to his house, I got out of the car, wincing at the pain in my side as I tried to walk. Peter was by my side, grabbing my elbow to help me walk.

"I'm fine," I shook his hand off gently. "I don't need you to carry me."

He hovered by me as we made it inside. Thankfully, Elizabeth was not there so I didn't have to look all tough in front of her. Peter sat me down in the kitchen and went to the freezer to grab ice packs.

"Lift your arm," he motioned to my right arm as he wrapped an ice pack in a dish cloth.

It hurt to lift it up, and Peter yanked my shirt up and pressed the ice pack there. It was freezing cold even through the cloth and I'm ticklish on the sides so I nearly fell out of the chair, protesting,

"No, I can't."

"Stop that," he held me still with one hand and slowly put the ice pack down over the ugly bruise.

I gritted my teeth in pain and tried to breathe through it. He lowered my shirt and then positioned my right arm down over it, to hold it in place.

"Pull your arm down and put pressure on it but not too much," he instructed. Wrapping up another ice pack in a dish cloth, he put it on the left side of my face where I had been pistol-whipped and put my left hand up to hold it.

"Stay there while I see to your lip," he went to the pantry to get the first aid kit.

I let off a little while he was gone, letting the ice packs touch my skin without being pressed into it. The cold hurt, and though I knew the advantages of alternating cold and heat for bruises, it hurt less to not touch my bruises at all. But when Peter came back out, I was dutifully holding the packs in place and trying not to grimace against the pain.

"Okay, look up at me," Peter instructed as he opened the first aid kit.

I did and he dabbed my lips with something wet and cool that immediately stung like fire.

"Ow!" I yanked back. "That hurts."

"Well, of course, it hurts. You got hit with a gun, kicked, and banged around in a truck and did a face-plant on the concrete. Now, stop being a baby and hold still while I clean you up."

"Where's Elizabeth?" I scowled as I leaned forward. "She'd be nicer than you."

"Probably," Peter agreed as he started dabbing the antiseptic wipe on my lips again, "but I'm hoping if I get you bandaged up before she comes home, she'll only take off our heads a little."

"You think she's going to be mad?" I made myself concentrate on our conversation instead of how much I hurt.

"Oh, yeah."

"At you or me?"

"Both of us. You for getting hurt, me for letting it happen."

"I'll take the blame," I offered. "It was my fault."

"I know, but she doesn't like it when my job gets dangerous. She keeps thinking I live in the office and shuffle through papers. She was upset for weeks when she found out that I carried a gun."

"I was upset, too," I grinned a little though my lips stung. "I didn't like the idea of anyone after me with guns."

"That might have saved your life. Most criminals buy a gun when they realize the FBI is after them. Things get really dirty after that. Lift the ice pack from your face."

I did, and he dabbed at the skin where the impact of the metal gun had gouged a little. It hurt, but the cold pack helped numb the pain.

He threw away the wipes and took the last ice pack and wrapped it in paper towels so I wouldn't get blood on the dishcloth. He held it out for my mouth, but I said,

"I'm out of hands."

"Here," he put it in my right hand. "Hold that to your mouth and I'll hold the one on your side."

I shifted hands, and he pressed the ice pack to my side, more firmly than I would have liked, but I could put my puffy lips to the last ice pack.

It was definitely awkward with so many icepacks, but we stayed that way about ten minutes. Then he had me take them off and went to get me some ibuprofen and water.

After two more applications of the ice packs, I thought my side and face were significantly frozen enough, and Peter decided to move on to heat.

"You going to turn on the oven and have me hop in?" I suggested.

"No, you can have a bath."

"Come on, it's not even nighttime yet."

"So?"

"So, if I take a bath, you'll want me to wear those dumb pajamas again and get in bed to rest."

"The doctors said you need rest."

"I'm fine."

"You were in a car accident."

"Technically, I think a car accident involves something hitting your car."

"It does not. A car accident is when something bad happens to your car."

"If that were the definition, then your battery dying would be a car accident. It has to hit another car, a person, or something on the road to be a car accident."

"If you ran off the road and flipped into a ditch, you would call that a car accident."

"No, I would call that bad driving."

"Fine, you were a victim of bad driving today. Either way, you're going upstairs for a bath and I want you to stay in there for a while. Then you can rest in bed."

I made a groaning/whining noise as I stood. "If I go along without complaining, can I watch TV on the sofa? I promise to stay still."

"Yeah, you can put some more ice on then."

He got me upstairs (the stairs hurt my side), and he actually put Epsom salts in the bathtub as it filled.

"Keep turning the water hotter every five minutes," Peter told me as he adjusted the handles. "But don't get it too hot."

"If I do, are you going to come in here?"

"I might. I want to see that side after you're through."

"Look at your own side," I grumbled as he left. I locked the bathroom door, but it was one of those cheap kinds that you could pop open from the other side with a straight wire. I stripped off my clothes and looked at myself in the mirror.

I looked like some kind of abuse victim what with my face and side bruised and swollen. Ow.

The hot water did feel good though it made my side ache, and I soaked in it for a long time, turning the hot water on every so often. I took a washcloth and dipped it in the tub and pressed it slowly to my face. I managed to wash my hair, using the arm from my good side to suds up my dark hair and then sliding down in the tub to dunk back under water to get the shampoo out. It smelled like violet, obviously Elizabeth's, but it was the only bottle I could reach without standing up.

Peter knocked on the door once and reported that he left clean clothes outside the door. When I finally got out of the tub, I found the hated pajamas there, all clean and folded with a pair of his boxers. I put on the clothes, thinking mean thoughts about FBI agents who torture consultants with plaid pajamas that were not in any kind of style. I towel-dried my hair with one hand and tried to fix it in a presentable style, but without gel, it kind of laid flat and deflated, making me look younger.

I liked that I could still pass for early twenties if I needed to, but with the absurd pajamas, I did not like the image staring me back in the mirror. At this rate, I should be clutching a teddy bear and sucking my thumb. Of course, my bashed-up face worked against the young, innocent look, creating the impression of a guy who had gotten in a bad fight while looking adorable in pajamas. Maybe _for_ looking adorable in pajamas.

Giving up on my appearance, I went downstairs where Peter promptly put me on the sofa with more ice packs and handed me the remote. I flipped through the channels and settled on an old movie, keeping the sound down low so I could hear Peter as he talked on the phone in the dining room. Apparently, his boss – er, our boss was not very happy about the whole mess at the warehouse.

"I know," Peter said into the phone. "It's in the report . . . I know . . . yes, an overturned semi does look bad . . . Caffrey . . . I didn't _let_ him drive it! He jumped in without –. . . yes, I know we used that trick before with the Dutchman. But this time, I approved it seeing how long it was taking to get the warrant . . . No, I'm at home. Caffrey's with me. He got beaten up by some thugs. The medics said he wasn't concussed, but I patched him up once I got him here . . . Well, it saves the Bureau the cost of a hospital stay or the hassle of insurance."

Peter came to stand at the edge of the living room near the bookcase, frowning at me as he talked. I didn't really like Hughes – I thought he was kind of a bully, especially when Peter was trying his hardest.

"No," Peter went on, "I understand how this looks . . . Oh, believe me, I'm going to read him the riot act. But the main point is we got the guys and the evidence. Their only choice at this point is plea-bargain which their lawyers should recognize so that's nice . . . I'll be in sometime tomorrow. . . No, no more truck-driving for Caffrey . . . yes, sir, see you tomorrow."

Peter hung up his phone.

"Was he mad?" I asked.

"He found out that our art-expert consultant flipped a semi-truck full of artwork – what do you think?"

"Do I still have a job?"

"Barely. He expects you to be apologetic and watch yourself from here on out. But he's glad we got the guys so that helps a little. Oh, El's home early."

He went to get the door, and I heard Elizabeth's shoes on the floor.

"Hi, honey," they kissed. "Why are you home so early? Is Neal here? I was thinking we could –" Elizabeth came around in the living room, but she stopped short at the sight of me.

"Hi," I smiled, lowering the ice pack from my face.

Elizabeth stared at me in horror. Then she whirled to face her husband. "What did you do to him?"


	5. Formal

AN: As a writing challenge, I wanted to write this chapter in Elizabeth's POV, just because I thought it would stretch my writing muscles and because it was fun to see the guys from an outside perspective.

Thanks for much to Fawkes Song and her excellent betaing.

------

My husband looked at me. "What did I do?" Peter gaped. "I – I, he got himself all banged up. I told him to be careful, I told him to wait until we got the warrant, but he didn't. He thought he was smarter than all of us and he went off to the warehouse by himself and nearly got himself killed."

Panic hit me, but I quelled it by reasoning that Neal had survived because he was sitting on our sofa, bruised but alive. No matter how horrible the story, he would be alive at the end of it. However, I immediately turned to Neal and fixed him with an icy look. "Neal? Is that true?"

He put the ice pack over his face, trying to hide behind it. Any other time, I would have found him adorable, the way those startling blue eyes flickered back and forth between Peter and me, worried and unsure.

Peter put his arm on mine and began telling me the whole story, not leaving a single thing out. When he got to the thugs in the warehouse, I was ready to strangle both of them, and when he told me about turning over the truck, I marched right up in front of Neal, my arms crossed.

He slouched down in the sofa, the ice pack over his face, looking like a teenager in front of a displeased mother.

"Did you do that?" I asked in the voice I reserved for Peter when he had done something really, really bad. Behind me, I sensed my husband stiffening. Oh, yes, he knew that tone.

Neal's head finally came up, wide eyes feigning innocence and confusion. "There was so much happening, and I got caught in the middle, and everyone had guns, and Peter won't let me have a gun –"

"You hate guns," I pulled my arms tighter around my torso, hating that he had reminded me about the fact that my husband carried a gun. "And it would be disastrous to give you one. No, don't you dare feel sorry for yourself."

Neal had begun to look down, but he yanked his gaze back up at my sharp tone.

"Do you want to explain why you acted so foolishly?" I demanded.

Neal glanced at Peter for help, but I shook my head.

"All right, he's safe now, honey," Peter intervened. "The medics looked at him and we got ice and medicine. No permanent damage."

Neal relaxed, but I wasn't about to let it go, "We'll see about that. Why do you have an ice pack on your side?"

"It's nothing," Neal said hastily.

I knew that look, too – the one Peter wore when he had gotten hurt and he was trying to hide it from me. I leaned over and pulled up Neal's pajama top.

"Hey!" Neal objected, wearing his outraged expression as if he were being violated.

"Don't you think that's a little inappropriate?" Peter began, but I saw the huge bruise on Neal's side: ugly, reddish black, looking so painful I flinched.

"Peter, it's all black and red! He could have broken ribs or internal bleeding!"

"The doctor said he was okay."

Just like a man, taking the doctor's words and not insisting they examine closer. But I didn't want to get in an argument about how Peter ignored his health and everyone's and thought people could just be all right. I lowered Neal's shirt and gave him a trusty smile.

"Don't worry, Neal. We'll take care of you. I don't know when Peter's work got so violent, but we'll see to it that you don't have to put yourself in harm's way again."

"It's all right. This isn't the first time I've . . ." Neal trailed off as he looked over my shoulder at Peter behind me. Neal swallowed and said nothing.

Peter looked at me kindly. "Honey, what do you want to do about dinner? Let me go pick something up."

"That might be a good idea. I'm getting him some water," I abruptly went into the kitchen. Like a good husband, Peter followed a moment later. I began breaking pieces of ice into glasses, keeping my back to him.

"Baby," he sighed.

I refused to turn around. "White collar, Peter, white collar."

"I know," he sighed even heavier.

"You told me the white collar division of the Bureau was practically the safest job you could have in the FBI, next to the autopsy people! And yes, I knew you carried a gun, but I thought it was just FBI protocol. You were going to be cooped up in an office looking at shipping reports for smugglers and accounts for fraud – not chasing thugs through warehouses with guns and flipping over trucks."

"It was going to be safe. I take every precaution, El. I do everything in my power to keep my team protected, but everyone has to follow orders. When they don't, they get hurt."

I turned around and he looked so tired and worried and drained that I dropped the ice and ran over to him. I hugged him tight, pulling in his warm, strong body like I never wanted to let it go.

"It's so dangerous," I said into his shoulder.

"I know, I know. Believe me, once Neal heals up, we're going to have a talk about this. I promise you he will never be so reckless again, I swear it."

"Keep both of you safe," I squeezed him hard and then let go.

When I went back into the living room, Neal seemed jumpy and on edge. Ever since the case when my friend's husband was accused of stealing gold from Iraq, Neal has been wary of fights between Peter and me. We have to wait until we're alone to have a disagreement. Sometimes I feel like we're parents who take extra care not to fight in front of the kid because it will scar him for life.

But I gave him the ice and sat down on the sofa and talked to them about other cases that they were working on. Neal finally leaned back against the sofa, interchanging sips of water and cold pressure on his face.

The rest of the evening passed quickly. We kept the mood light, laughing over dinner and pushing food on Neal. He seemed relaxed and at ease, smiling despite his hurt face, and he told us several funny stories about friends he had known who committed crimes which turned out badly. Peter looked at me in the middle of the first story, clearly realizing that the "friend" was Neal, but the stories were so amusing that Peter had to laugh along.

However, at certain times, during a pause in the conversation, Peter would look at me or the food or reach for a bottle of wine, and from the corner of my eye, I saw Neal's face. He looked apprehensive, concerned, those pretty eyes darting around, and I knew he was watching for any sign of Peter getting fed up.

Men. I wanted to roll my eyes right there at the table. Neal had screwed up big time, and Peter knew he knew it, but both of them skirted around the issue.

It was absurd sometimes, the fact that this criminal had become such a big part of our lives. Peter had chased him for three years, and for three years, I had nearly gone crazy watching Peter during those days as he kept after Neal. And once they got him, Peter had been worried the evidence wouldn't stick. They finally got the bonds to stick enough to convict him, but Peter said four years in prison was a drop in the bucket to all the trouble Neal had caused.

It had made me angry, too, especially when Neal escaped and Peter had to go after him. I can't understand how my husband takes it – working so hard to stop bad guys only to have the courts toss out the evidence or the prisons let people escape or the lawyers make plea bargains so the criminals get out because they give information about other bad guys.

I had fully expected to hate Neal when I first met him, but I found myself swayed by his charm and ease and sweet nature. I do not sympathize with most criminals, but Neal won me over quickly, and I loved his romantic nature and his growing friendship with Peter. Peter doesn't get to work with people who are as brilliant and quick-minded and clever as Neal, and it's good for him to find his match and challenge himself even more.

As the night grew later, I insisted that Neal spend the night with us. "After all," I pointed out, "you're already in pajamas, and it's too cold for you to wander New York in pajamas."

Neal smiled, but agreed. He kept watching Peter, almost if he expected Peter to blow up any minute, but my husband stayed pleasant and even-toned throughout the evening. We watched a little TV, and around ten we all went up to bed, Neal nearly dozing off on the sofa.

I got ready for bed and went to the guest room where Peter was making sure Neal was down for the night.

"I'm going to get up every few hours and wake you," Peter said as Neal pulled the covers over him and settled down in the queen-sized bed.

"I don't have a concussion."

"Just in case. You need us in the night, just call out. I'm a light sleeper."

"You're going to make a great dad," I teased as Peter came out, leaving the door cracked an inch.

Peter shook his head and sighed. "More trouble than he's worth."

"Shh," I giggled pulling him into our bedroom, "he'll hear you."

Peter grumbled, but I started kissing him hard, crushing my body up against his, having to stand on tiptoes to reach his mouth. He kissed me back and then pulled back a little.

"Honey, what – what's going on?"

It's a habit of mine; every time his work gets dangerous, I have to make love to him that night. It's a desperate urge I have, one that makes me want to cry and to have sex with him all night long. His job terrifies me, and I fight against that hysteria that rises inside me every time he goes on a dangerous mission. I feel better knowing Neal is with him, but now that Neal was acting like a lunatic –

"Whoa, whoa, El," Peter grabbed me by the arms. "I just saw about fifteen different emotions flash over your face. What's going on in there?"

"Just worried," I leaned my head on his shoulder.

He hugged me tight and then we moved to the bed together.

------

The next week, I was busy with planning a fund-raiser event and I was away from home so much that I only saw Peter at night. He said work was going fine and we were so sleep deprived that we didn't talk. No more dangerous jobs had come in, just a few cases of fraud, so I could rest easy.

But everything came to a head Saturday morning. Satchmo was making noise downstairs, and I got out of bed around nine to let him out, edging off the mattress as softly as possible to not wake Peter up. He didn't move, my poor tired man, and I put on a robe to go downstairs.

I found Neal in our living room, sitting on the sofa, one hand patting the dog.

"How did you get in?" I asked in surprise.

"Front door," he nodded his head in that direction.

"And the alarm?"

"I know the code. It's the same as Peter's pin number for his debit card."

"Peter's not up yet. Are you two working on a case?"

Neal nodded. He looked much better – his face was nearly healed and he was wearing a collared shirt and dark pants. "Maybe I should go," he suggested though he didn't move from the sofa.

My lips twitched, and I fought not to smile. For all his charm and sleek attitude, Neal is shamelessly easy to read sometimes. He obviously wanted me to ask him what was wrong, but didn't want to tell me without being asked first. I considered calling his bluff by showing him the door, but I'm not heartless so I played along.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he ran a hand over Satchmo's head, looking so lost it tugged on my heart strings.

"Oh, now, I'm sure it's all going to work out," I took a seat on the sofa. "Is it Peter?"

"Kind of," his face fell another fraction of an inch.

"Were you two having problems at work? Is he still upset about the whole warehouse thing?"

"I don't know. It's been weird between us since then. Hughes was furious – I got chewed out by him in front of Jones and Lauren. I had to swear never to do something that reckless ever again. And then everything just went back to normal."

"And that's not good?" I questioned, intently watching his face.

"It is, but . . . Peter's different now."

"In what way?"

"He doesn't – oh forget it."

Neal leaned forward to stand up, but I put a hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him back.

"No, it was important enough for you to come all the way here. Is he being short with you? Is he cutting you down or making you feel bad about yourself?" I didn't believe Peter would do any of those things, but I've found that asking extremes about a problem often helps a person open up. It worked now because Neal answered,

"Oh, no, nothing like that. He's just extra professional now. I mean, he was professional before, but now . . . before we used to joke sometimes. I would rag him about his clothes and tastes, and he would retort things about sending me back to prison or how he was always watching me. It was fun, just things we say to each other to get on each other's nerves, but in a good way, you know?"

"It's how you guys relate to each other," I nodded. "I always thought you balanced each other out. You lighten him up, and he gets you to concentrate on the jobs."

"And it was good until –" Neal kicked out a foot restlessly. It didn't hit anything, but it was the most frustrated thing I had ever seen him do.

"Until you didn't listen and got hurt and flipped a truck?" I supplied.

He gave me a side look, clearly unwilling to admit his blame.

"So you want things to return to the way they were before?" I went on. "You want to be able to act anyway you choose and have your behavior not affect the people around you?"

"That's not fair," he protested.

"But that's what you're saying. You want to be able to do whatever you want and never reap any consequences of your decisions. You can't have it both ways, Neal. You can't have people who care about you and the freedom to do whatever you like whenever you like."

"But aren't friends supposed to support your decisions? Aren't they supposed to forgive you when you do something wrong?"

"To an extent. Like with Peter – he says something flippant and cold without meaning to, and I call him on it. He apologizes, I forgive him, and we put the matter behind us."

"Exactly. I want him to do that with me. Forgive me and move on."

"That's saying something. If I knew Peter had ignored protocol and rules at his job and put himself in danger and then he came home to me hurt –" my expression finished the rest of my thoughts.

Neal drew back a little. "I'm guessing you'd have a little more than a nice talk. Probably a yelling match."

"To say the least," I added dryly.

"Well, why can't he yell? He shouts at me for a while, I snarl back, and then we're done. Or if he's that mad at me, swear at me or punch me or kick me out of the car while it's going, but don't be polite to me. I can't stand people being polite when they're furious."

This time I had to raise my hand to cover my smile. Neal was too adorable, sitting there and grousing about Peter punishing him with politeness. "It can't be that bad."

"But it is. All day long, 'Neal, please make a copy of this.' 'Neal, we're going to lunch in five minutes. Please get your coat.' 'Neal, please don't touch the radio in my car. Thank you.' All this without a smile. When did he take the whole Agent Burke thing so seriously?"

"All right," I stood up, "I'm going to talk to him. You stay here and entertain Satchmo."

"I should leave," Neal looked at the door, but made no movement again.

"Even if you leave, Peter can find you anywhere," I reminded him.

Neal reached over and petted the dog's head.

I went upstairs to find that Peter had rolled over on his side. "Hey," I climbed onto the bed beside him.

"Hey," he opened his eyes to squint. "What's going on?"

"Neal's here," I told him.

He groaned and burrowed down into the pillow. "Tell him I'm asleep."

"Honey, he's upset. He said everything is different with you at work."

"Man," Peter scowled even with his eyes shut, "there is no pleasing him. I'm sending him back to prison."

"Honey, wake up and tell me what's going on."

Peter sighed and rolled on his back, rubbing his hand over his face. I love that he wears his wedding ring to bed, the flash of gold which reminds me that he's mine.

"Nothing is wrong. After the little incident that nearly blew up in our faces, I thought maybe a formal response was in order."

"Meaning?"

"Well, Neal seemed to be getting a little too lax with rules and I thought maybe that was my fault," Peter looked at me, and I could see the worry in his eyes. "I'm the leader of the team, I set the tone and the rules. I'm a little looser than some agents so I thought maybe Neal was taking his cues from me. The first time he tried this trick with the Dutchman, I was so happy to close the case I didn't warn him about protocol or going off on his own. It was dangerous then, but I didn't lecture him. So this time, maybe it is my fault that he doesn't have any respect for the rules."

I pulled close to him, rubbing my hand through his hair.

"I thought," Peter continued, "if I treated him more like a consultant than Neal, it might help him focus. So I've been a little formal with him."

"Oh, honey," I hugged him tight, "you are absolutely awful at relationships."

"What?" he pulled away from me.

"Sweetie, of everything you have seen from Neal so far, what does he need the most?"

"A kick in the ass," Peter grumbled.

"Consistency. Above everything, he needs consistency. He is always changing – he's cool and suave, he's in love with Kate, he's flirting with every woman in shouting distance, he's being honest with you, he's sneaking around behind your back, he's lying, he's honest. Always changing. He's drawn to you because you are consistent."

"I'm not that consistent. I can be spontaneous."

"Yes, but for the most part you are steady and reliable and honest and everything that Neal needs in a leader. You lead by example, and he's always watching you, watching you at work, at home with me, out in the world. You have to be steady and dependable."

"I am!"

"But the problem," I continued, "is that you are two people to him. You are Peter and Agent Burke. He knows you as those two people."

Peter looked skeptical so I continued.

"Think about it, honey. Agent Burke is the man who caught him twice, Peter is the one who agreed to get him out of prison. Agent Burke cares about winning cases, Peter cares about him as a person. Agent Burke wants him to leave his problems at home and concentrate on work, Peter lectures him about his mistakes and life choices. Agent Burke wants him to do the right thing so he can continue working for the Bureau, Peter wants him to do the right thing because he should do the right thing and live a happy life. It's the switching back and forth that kills Neal – he doesn't know who he's getting each time he sees you."

"Well, I have to be those two people. And at work, I'm Agent Burke."

I recognized that stubborn glint in my husband's eye, but I refused to give up yet. "A few weeks ago, when he stole your car and you punished him, who were you? Agent Burke or Peter?"

"Peter," he mumbled, obviously not wanting to admit being wrong.

"And what would Agent Burke have done?"

"Told the Bureau and let Neal suffer the due consequences. Probably get him on some kind of stricter probation."

"When he got sick the other week, who took care of him? Agent Burke or Peter?"

"Peter. Really, El –"

"What should Agent Burke have done?" I asked.

"Counted it as a sick day and told him to come back to work when he was better."

"All right, I see a pattern here. When you realized that Neal had taken off against your orders, who acted then? Agent Burke or Peter?"

"Peter, by covering up. Agent Burke would have informed Hughes."

"And after it was over, you were Peter by bringing him here and taking care of him. But who have you been for the last week, to him?" I pushed harder.

"Agent Burke," Peter said reluctantly.

"See, I think Neal's confused because he doesn't know who he's going to have to face at the end. He admits he was wrong."

"He does?"

"Well, as much as Neal admits to anything. But still, now he's not sure what to do because you've become someone different."

"He scared me. He could have gotten shot or killed. This is not a game, El. The criminals we chase are dangerous and he needs to learn to follow the chain of command."

"So that's Agent Burke's take on it. What does Peter think? What does Peter want to do?"

"I want to beat his ass into shape," Peter sat up, clearly mad. "I want him to listen to me and promise he won't ever, ever go off on his own again."

"And then you'll feel better and things will get back to normal."

"Don't count on it," Peter yanked himself out of bed and started grabbing clothes. "I'm keeping such a close eye on him, he'll think he was a bug under a microscope. He was reckless and fool-hearty, and we haven't even touched on the whole getting-sick matter. Anymore shenanigans, and I'm shortening that tracker to a hundred feet."

I watched him get dressed, pulling on clothes while lecturing.

"As for consistency, oh, he's in for a world of consistency. I'll be so consistent that by the end of the week, he'll be begging me for the smallest bit of change."

"Oh, honey, I didn't mean –"

"And you're going to help me, El," Peter snapped his belt together and pulled up his fly. "You're good at getting to the root of the problem with Neal's nonsense. I'll be sure he knows that we're on to him."

"I don't think we need to mention my part –"

Peter grabbed me by the hand and we went towards the stairs. Peter is so sweet to me that I forget sometimes what he can get like when he's all worked up. He has told me that he is an unchallenged leader at work and people do what he says immediately, but I always thought that was him bragging and trying to be the man and the big shot. Now I felt like I had awakened the beast.

"Neal!" Peter said as we came down the stairs, me following by the hand as if we were some kind of parental team.

"Peter," Neal stood, "I didn't want to interrupt your weekend. I just wanted to tell you –"

"Over to the table," Peter pointed.

"What?" Neal's eyes opened wide.

"El, go get me the wooden board from the kitchen. Neal, over the table, hands down like last time. You know the drill. El?"

I quickly went to the kitchen, not wanting to see Peter now that I had got him riled up. I took the board off the wall, worried at how heavy it was. Surely Peter didn't swing it too hard. I wondered if I could convince him to use something small and lighter, like a wooden spoon. Or did we have any thin rulers? Maybe a flimsy hairbrush.

"Honey?" Peter called.

"I'm coming," I nearly dropped the wooden board in panic. It had been bad enough last time just watching – now I was involved. I could not believe how shaken up I felt; I was almost as nervous as Neal must feel and I wasn't even the one getting punished.

"I have it," I came out of the kitchen and handed it to my husband, unable to meet Neal's eyes. "Maybe I'll just go upstairs and take a shower . . ."

"Please take the dog into the other room," Peter requested. "We'll wait for you."

My heart was hammering in my chest as I got the dog out of the way. I dragged my feet back into the dining room, wishing I had never gotten mixed up in any of this. When Neal broke into the house with all his sad looks, I should have told him to speak to Peter directly.

"No, this isn't fair," Neal objected. "I'm not getting paddled now. We dealt with it at work and I was reprimanded there. I'm not getting punished."

"You weren't reprimanded. Any normal consultant would have found himself looking for a job if he had done something that outrageous. I'm not sending you back to prison, but I'm not giving you any special treatment either. So bend over and let's get this over with."

"You can't make me," Neal drew himself up tall. "You have no right to punish me like a child when I solved the case. And I got punched and kicked – I was punished enough already."

"The injuries you suffered were a direct result of showing yourself to the thugs when I said to stay hidden. Those were consequences of not thinking before you acted. This is a consequence of not following orders. So over you go."

"That's double jeopardy!"

I watched them argue back and forth, my eyes darting back and forth. The dynamic was certainly interesting, neither of them willing to back down.

"Neal," I finally spoke, "I think you better go along with him."

Neal turned to me, betrayed. "You're taking his side?"

"What you did was dangerous, thoughtless, and foolish. You said you wanted things to go back to normal between the two of you. Let him punish you, and then we can put this entire mess behind us."

Neal glanced from me back to Peter and then to the board in his hand and then back to me. The room was ominously silent as we waited for him to make his decision.


	6. Cool

Thanks to all my incredible reviewers. It's great to get feedback because it helps to shape my writing. Fawkes Son betaed and was awesome. I promise to write more on Harry Potter next.

-----

I anxiously looked back and forth between Peter and Elizabeth. I don't like ultimatums.

No, that's not nearly emphatic enough. _I hate ultimatums._ In a perfect world, there would be no final decisions, no choices I absolutely had to make. There would be multitudes of choices, and I could choose at random and consequences would never affect my decisions. A perfect world would have no consequences.

All my philosophic thought didn't change the fact that Peter was standing in front of me, with that horrid paddle in his hand and a knowing gleam in his eye. I was backed into a corner, and he knew it. I'm not sure when Peter became so deviously clever (and evil), but I did not like it.

I tried to give them my signature charming smile. Elizabeth looked away. She had obviously sided with the enemy. Peter was unmoved, his mouth doing that line thing that I especially did not like because it promised nothing good.

I dropped the smile and moved onto my next attempt: the sad puppy look. I confess that I've practiced this in the mirror quite a bit: make my lips tremble a little, swallow hard, and look very worried and unhappy. I can even make myself cry on cue, getting the tears to well up and slide down my cheeks. People are so easily moved by emotions; this sad look was how I got protected in prison. Even the guards felt bad for me.

"Hurry up, Neal," Peter told me. "I don't have all day. Lean over the table."

"But it's not right," I objected, pushing my bottom lip out a little as I worked the distressed look to its extreme. "I said I was sorry."

"Do you want things to get back to the way they were before you went rogue? If so, get on with it."

"That's emotional blackmail."

"Then you should feel right at home."

"I've never blackmailed anyone."

"Good, then I don't have to worry about adding that to your rap sheet. Come on, you and I and El all know this will put the whole matter behind us. I'll smack you a few times, you'll be sorry, and then it's over and we can watch a movie."

Elizabeth suddenly smiled and I glared at her.

"Something funny?"

"Yes," she nodded, "that's how Peter and I always end our fights – with a movie. In fact, I remember movies by the fights we were having before we saw them. _Braveheart_ – what color to paint the living room. _Die Hard 4_ – the fact he forgot my birthday for the second year in a row. _Charlie's Angels_ – whether or not to get a maid."

"Really?" I glanced at Peter. "Movies?"

"It's a good way to end a fight," he insisted.

"And the rule is, whoever apologizes first gets to pick the movie," Elizabeth said. A shadow of understanding passed over her face. "Which, I guess, explains why we've seen so many action movies in the last ten years."

The smallest smirk crossed Peter's face, but it vanished quickly.

Elizabeth pursed her lips. "Is that why you're always so quick to apologize? You want to see your movies?"

"Maybe," Peter admitted. "But it ends the fight. Neal, hurry up."

"Oh, wonderful," I scowled. "You two apologize and watch movies together, and I get turned over the table and paddled like a child."

"Nonsense," Peter objected. "I would never use this on a child."

The man's logic is insufferable.

I searched myself to see how I felt. I can feel about twenty things at a time, but I accepted this long ago as the price I have to pay for being brilliant. Most people can barely process a complete feeling at once; I can deal with a dozen.

And at that moment, I felt frustration, resentment, guilt, and neediness. I like Peter and I like Elizabeth; I like working with Peter and I like being his equal in brains if not employment. After the idiotic prisoners in prison who couldn't articulate a coherent thought, Peter is a dream come true. I swear I'm twice as smart now after having someone challenge me every day.

They could have paired me up with some dumb suit, but Peter's the smartest person I know, and sometimes I want to match wits with him just to see which one of us will win. And life would have been perfect, expect for that damn paddle.

And this really was my decision. I could say no. I could walk out the front door and call Hughes and tell him Peter wanted to use corporal punishment on me, and that would be the end. Of course, I would probably go back to prison. Most days, I ignore that deep down feeling which whispers that Peter is the only person willing to take me on. No one else would step up to partner with me; no one else would be willing to monitor my whereabouts and behavior; to be perfectly frank, no one else wants me.

But Peter's spankings hurt. And they were embarrassing because I was an adult and adults don't get spanked. Adults . . . well, adults suffer much worse punishments like heavy fines or prison time. I had been punished as an adult, and I did not like it.

But I didn't like being spanked, either. I didn't want to be spanked and I didn't want to be punished as an adult. Of course, the logical answer to that was for me not to do things that were wrong, in the first place. But that would mean I'd have to act good the majority of the time, and that was not fun. The other answer would be to make sure I didn't get caught, which was no longer an option now that Peter was on to me all the time.

I had signed away my rights to be released into his custody. Someone should have knocked some sense to me in prison.

All of this endless reasoning flashed through my head in a second, and at the end of each argument, I came to the conclusion that I might be responsible for all the trouble that happened to me. I attracted trouble; I was cursed. I wondered if Peter would buy the whole born-under-a-bad-star argument.

He raised half an eyebrow at me.

Groaning out a long sigh from deep in my throat to show how displeased I was, I turned towards the table. I slapped my hands down in the middle, angling my body out like last time.

"You're a brute," I muttered.

"And you're a headache," Peter replied. "But you're my headache. Why am I going to punish you?"

"I'm not answering that," I braced myself for the first swat. It did not come.

"Neal, you have to answer the question."

"No I don't! You can paddle me, but you can't make me talk."

"Neal, answer him," Elizabeth urged. "Otherwise, we'll be here all day."

I would answer for Elizabeth, but never for Peter. "The case," I said under my breath.

"What was that?" Peter asked with evil politeness.

"The case," I said louder.

"And what about the case? What specifically did you do?"

One day I was going to set Peter up in a diabolical trap where he gets falsely accused of a crime and goes to prison and I watch with maniacal glee. They'll haul him off in chains and I'll laugh and laugh and –

"I went to the warehouse by myself."

"And?"

"I got beat up."

"And why did you get beat up?"

"Because they found me."

"And how did they find you when I told you to hide until the team got in place?"

And once Peter was in prison, I was going to send him pictures of me living in his house and enjoying all his things, except his suits which I would burn in a big bonfire.

"I went out and tried to talk to them."

The swats still did not come, and Peter kept questioning me.

"And then what happened after they hurt you?"

"I got in a semi truck and drove it through the wall and flipped it."

"Do you know how to drive a semi truck?"

"No, but I've read about driving one."

"Should you get behind the wheel of something you don't know how to operate?"

I was also going to visit him in prison every week and take gourmet European chocolate with me and eat it right in front of him. And he would sit there in the orange jumpsuit with his hands cuffed in front of him while I ate the candy and maybe imported wine and whatever his favorite food was, and he would suffer then.

"No, I shouldn't," I said.

"Next time are you going to follow FBI protocol?"

"Yes."

"And why are you going to follow protocol?"

I planned to marry his wife and adopt his dog and drive his car and take his job while he sat in prison, crying, because the amazing Neal Caffrey had outwitted him so devastatingly.

"Because you make me," I snapped.

"Neal."

"Because it keeps us safe," I sighed, giving the answer I knew he wanted to hear.

"That's right. You need to learn self-control, Neal."

I sensed Peter pulling his arm back, and then I heard the slam of the paddle against my ass a split second before I felt the sting. No, _sting_ is too mild a word to describe the blaze that ignited my rear end. I hissed sharply, but rather than taking pity on a suffering human being, Peter swatted me again.

Last time he had lectured as he punished me, but now he stayed quiet as he put that evil paddle to work. He even got into a rhythm: right side, left side, right side, left side, middle, right side, left side, right, left, middle.

This was the second time I had been subjected to corporal punishment under his hand (not counting the few swats I got when I was sick), but I felt like I had undergone this horror enough to come to the following conclusion: the hardest thing about taking a spanking is the pain of course, but after that, it's making yourself stay still. Peter is a little bigger than I am, but I'm still a grown man, nearly six feet tall. If I really, really wanted to fight Peter, I probably could have put up a decent fight, maybe enough to get away. And I wasn't over his lap or anything mortifying like that, so nothing was holding my body in place except me.

I was holding myself in place, I was controlling myself. This whole awful business would have been easier to endure if I had been free to kick my legs or beat my fists against the table or squirm around, but leaning over the table, I had to force myself to stay still. If this was all part of the lesson Peter wanted to teach me about self-control, he was twice as evil as I thought him to be.

In a perfect world, there would be no self-control, either.

He broke the rhythm and landed a swat on the back of my left thigh, and I let out a cry of surprise.

"Pull yourself together," Peter told me. "We're not nearly done yet."

"Not fair," I hissed between my teeth. The pain was sharp now, and tears had swelled up in my eyes, this time not of my own choosing.

"Very fair," Peter replied.

"We should be done," I protested. "I said I was sorry. When have I ever admitted I was wrong before?"

"Not nearly enough," Peter agreed with me. But his agreement did not stop him from paddling me more.

I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling two hot tears trickle down my cheeks as I got thoroughly punished. In the midst of my agony, I felt something warm and soft fold over my hands, and I opened my eyes to see Elizabeth on the other side of the table, pressing her hands over mine.

I looked up at her, not knowing what to think.

"It's okay," she murmured softly. "We both love you and we're going to see you through this. You're not alone anymore."

Why did she have to choose this moment to be sweet and loving? If she had looked stern and cold, I could have held my emotions together better, but I can't stop myself when I'm hurting and someone goes out of their way to comfort me.

I started crying for real, not caring how I looked. I was sore and tired and I just wanted Peter to finish so we could get back to being friends. We could be Peter and Neal again, not Agent Burke and his troublesome, closely-monitored consultant.

"I guess that's good," Peter finished with an incredible wallop.

I didn't move. I was breathing hard to get myself under control and tears were streaming down my cheeks, but I didn't want to move my arms to swipe them away.

Strong hands pulled me straight up, and I expected to be relegated over to the corner to calm down, but instead, Peter pulled me in for a hug.

You know those awful moments when you want to be all cool and casual and much more collected than the bumbling FBI agent who caught you, put you in prison, and just then paddled your ass? You want to stand up straight and tell him you're fine, but then he offers a hug, and you're so distraught you fall into it and hug him back like you're drowning? And then you bury your face in his shoulder and sob like a little girl while promising that you'll be good?

You know you'll be looking at the moment as the weakest of your life, but at the time, you're so grateful for someone to comfort you that you never want to let go. And your FBI agent, who isn't half as cool as you are, doesn't let you go, but keeps saying things like "Good boy, it's okay. You're okay, you took that like a good boy." And you keep crying like your heart is breaking?

Well, none of those things happened to me. You might be a pathetic person who bawls at any sign of affection after a punishment, but I'm much more in control of myself and my emotions. Peter hugged me, but I didn't promise to be good. Instead, I sobbed into his chest, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'm really sorry."

And he didn't say "Good boy." He said, "It's okay, Neal. You're okay, you took that really well."

And I certainly did not keep crying. My tears came for a few more minutes because my tear ducts had to empty properly, and once Peter let me go, Elizabeth hugged me, and it was only fair that I keep crying for her. If I had stopped crying, she would have thought I cared more about Peter's comfort than hers, and I had to keep the tears going to let her know she was loved, too.

By the time the waterworks had dried up, I wasn't much good for anything, and I watched Peter anxiously, wondering what to do next.

"El, you mind putting this up?" Peter picked up the paddle and handed it to her. "Why don't you put it in one of the kitchen drawers?"

"Okay," she took it from him and went to the kitchen.

I wondered if he wanted it in the drawer so I didn't have to see it when I went into the kitchen, which was nice of him. Or maybe he wanted to make sure it was only used from now on to paddle me, which was not nice of him at all. But I felt too tired to ask him, and he motioned to the side with his head.

"Go to the bathroom and wash your face. When you come back, we can watch a movie."

It was deja' vu in the bathroom all over again. And once again, I couldn't resist taking a peek at my rear in the mirror. Just like last time, my poor ass was dark pink, hot to the touch and very sore looking. I would have to come up with a plan of action for the next time I got in trouble; maybe sewing metal lining into my underwear to protect my bottom. Or replacing that piece of board with foam, leaving the wooden handle so Peter still thought it was all wood.

I splashed water on my face and ran my fingers through my hair, avoiding my reflection because I had no interest in seeing my face after I had been crying.

When I came out of the bathroom, I found Peter and Elizabeth discussing something in low, tense whispers.

"…is not fair at all," Peter hissed.

"Oh, yes, it is, and you know it," she whispered back fiercely.

I hesitated, hating that they were arguing with each other. As much as I grouse about Peter, I wanted him and Elizabeth to get along with each other. He deserved to be happy with his wife.

"We'll ask him and that's final," Elizabeth decided.

Peter put his hands on his hips and sighed as he gave her his martyred look. "You always take his side."

"Yes, but I married you," she kissed his cheek before turning to me. "Neal, since you apologized first, you get to pick the movie. We're going out to see it – we could all use some time out of the house. So what do you want to see?"

"Can we go to that old theater on Fifth Avenue where they show the classics?" I asked eagerly.

Peter made a face. "We got to spend twelve bucks a person to see some black and white movie that we could watch on TV for free?"

"Yes, and you're buying the popcorn, too," I gave him a broad smile.

"And I want the Junior Mints," Elizabeth went to grab their coats and mine. "And a Diet Coke."

"It costs a fortune for those snacks," Peter grumbled. "We might as well go out to dinner for half the price."

"Oh, dinner's a good idea, too," Elizabeth handed Peter his coat and then gave me mine. "We'll hit a matinee and then have a late lunch after that."

"This is coming out of your allowance," Peter told me.

My grin grew. "I seriously doubt that."

He scowled at me, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Fine, but I better not hear any complaining about sitting at the movies. And no getting up during the movie. I hate when people do that."

"You can handcuff me to the chair," I promised.

He drove up to the movies, Elizabeth in the front seat and me in the back. My bottom was fairly hot still, but not bad enough to ruin the afternoon.

Thirty minutes later, I was sitting in the darkened theater, situated between Peter and Elizabeth with a bucket of popcorn on my lap and my drink in the cup holder at the end of my right armrest. I felt the smallest bit uncomfortable, but as long as I didn't squirm too much, I could ignore the sting for the most part.

As I took a sip of my drink, Peter gave me a look that said I better not have to get up during the movie. On the other side of Elizabeth, the seats were full so I couldn't get out easily that way.

For the duration of the movie, I was stuck between them. This time, I was completely trapped.

But on the whole, I didn't really mind at all.

The End


End file.
